


Unsteady

by marvelandimagine



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Showers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-07
Updated: 2017-01-07
Packaged: 2018-09-15 09:34:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9228941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marvelandimagine/pseuds/marvelandimagine
Summary: Bucky x reader. Reader comforts Bucky after he comes back from a rough mission. Loosely inspired by X Ambassador's "Unsteady."





	

“If you love me, don’t let go.

Hold onto me, ‘cause I’m a little unsteady.”

Your heart skips the second you hear the light “ping” of your phone go off. You pause the documentary you were watching, grabbing the phone and squinting slightly as the screen’s illumination hits your eyes.

It’s from Steve:

“Just landed, he’ll be back in 10. It was rough for everyone, but he’s really shook up … trying to hide it but we can all tell. He really needs you rn, whether he says it or not.”

You sigh before replying, sitting upright in bed to shake off the sleep and shake the hair out of your eyes.

“Thanks for letting me know, glad you guys are ok. Can I ask how bad casualties were?”

You place the phone against your lips as you lean back against the bed frame, your nerves on edge while you wait for an answer.

The sound emanates from your phone within seconds.

“Building got bombed while Bucky and Clint were doing evac. Nothing they could do, but there were kids that died.”

You feel the sadness press on your chest, your heart breaking not only for the children robbed of a future, but for your boyfriend who you know damn well would be quietly, furiously blaming himself.

You reply:

“Oh god. I’m sure you guys did everything you could. Go get some sleep, I’ll let you know how he is tomorrow.”

Another ping.

“Thanks, Y/N.”

You place your phone down on the side table, exhaling as your glance flickers to the door of your apartment. You typically never really knew what type of Bucky would walk through after missions; he could be quiet and utterly exhausted but overall triumphant after a successful one, or there was the hard stoicism and tension that radiated off him in waves when things didn’t work out according to plan.

But this, the loss of multiple young lives in the area he was working – you knew Bucky hadn’t faced something like this since joining the Avengers. You didn’t know how he’d handle it, but what you did know was that you had to be there for him.

Your pulse quickens as you hear the doorknob turning open, twisting your weight to the side of the bed to turn on your lamp and bathing the room in a warm but dim glow. 

You weren’t surprised by the lightness in his steps; despite his muscled build, Bucky moved around like a ghost. What you were surprised was the slow pace of them, as if each step was taking a toll on his being.

You’re already off the bed as your boyfriend steps into your shared bedroom, but you stop in your tracks with a sharp intake of breath as you get closer – close enough to see the red and maroon blossoms of color spread out in a seemingly sporadic pattern across his torso, visible even through the dark fabric of his tac vest.

If the blood wasn’t enough to stop you, the look on his face would be. You’ve never seen him look so detached, his blue eyes empty of their usual warmth. His handsome face is devoid of expression, as if a shadow passed over him and wiped the slate clean. You’ve seen the vacancy, the unintended introspection from his PTSD, but this is something else entirely. This isn’t just his mind that’s checking out, it’s all of him.

“I told you not to wait up.”

His voice is hoarse but it doesn’t seem like it’s from crying – your heart drops further into your stomach when recounting the bombing, thinking of how long he must’ve spent in the dust and debris and flames. How the scent of burning flesh would have mingled in the air …

You blink quickly in a moment of simultaneous fear and gratitude, hating yourself for feeling selfish and not wanting to underscore the deaths of civilians – especially kids – but fuck, right now the thought of Bucky dying on one of these missions hits you with a visceral weight as real as the blood on his chest and you silently thank God or the universe or whatever was out there for keeping him safe on yet another life-threatening mission.

You push your own anxiety to the back of your head, though, knowing full well that it’s Bucky who truly needs you right now, not the other way around.

You step closer, looking at him directly and watching him purposefully avoid your gaze.

“Can’t sleep ‘till you’re home safe.”

Your gentle murmur seems to stir something in Bucky; you watch him swallow and bite the corner of his lip, eyes flickering up to your concerned face for a second. It passes as quickly as it comes, however, and he moves to walk away from you toward the bathroom.

You sidestep and stop him, sliding one hand gingerly on his chest.

“Hey. You know I’m here for you, right? Whatever you need.”

His eyes finally meet yours, the sense of detachment replaced with a shining, helpless grief, and you react instinctively out of love and protection, wrapping your arm tightly around him, the other reaching up behind him to rest on his neck to stroke at his dark hair.

You’re thrown off by the quickness of his reaction – you know he’s been working on progressing his comfort with touching and being touched – but both of his strong arms clasp around your waist so tightly that you struggle to catch your breath for a second, your voice muffled slightly as you speak into his chest: “I got you.”

You know he hears you though because you feel warmth against your skin from where Bucky has buried his face in your neck, pressing his lips there in a gentle kiss before his deep, shaking breaths take over. You shift your hand from cradling his head to his back where you rub your palm against the coarse fabric, your other arm squeezing him closer to you.

You know it’s hard for him to feel vulnerable, to let his emotions out – for him to show such a physical reaction to you, to cling to your embrace, to breathe you in like a drug, you know how deeply he’s hurting.

He pulls back slightly first, rubbing at his eyes for a flash in a failed effort to alleviate the noticeable redness that contrasts with the bright blue. He looks like hell, but you’re reassured that he’s letting his feelings out instead of keeping them to himself.

He brushes his lips against your hair, running one hand down the curve of your waist.

“Thank you.”

You give him a small smile as you gaze up at him:

“Always.”

He pulls back fully now and his eyes widens as he looks at you, his expression miserably apologetic.

“Fuck, I’m sorry -”

You look at him, confused, until you look down and see the red streaks across your sweater.

You shake your head reassuringly.

“It’s ok, it’ll come out.” You motion your head toward the bathroom. “Do you want to shower with me?”

Bucky nods in response, forever grateful that you have an uncanny ability to almost always know just what he needs without him having to verbalize it. It’s more for him than anything and you both know it, but your phrasing helps to alleviate the loss of control that threatens to overtake him.

You both make your way into the bathroom and strip down, your chest tightening as you see the ugly slashes and bruises that cover him. You know his healing is accelerated, but that doesn’t make seeing him so battle-scarred any better.

You step into the shower first, turning on the water and finding the right level of comforting heat before turning it on fully. You step back as Bucky approaches and you let him step in front of you, letting the warm spray hit both of your bodies. Your shower is spacious enough for you to both be comfortably immersed under the soothing water, but you watch as Bucky’s shoulders slump and the weight of the day hangs heavy as his chin drops down.

You grab soap from the holder on the wall, letting the water hit it until it starts lathering and you start to move it across Bucky’s broad back, cognizant of the stinging effect that it may have on some of the nastier cuts, but Bucky never flinches. After the residual blood is washed away, you take your hands to his skin, your fingers tracing across his muscles until they settle on his shoulders, digging into the tense flesh.

The corner of your mouth turns up slightly as Bucky lets out a contented sigh and you continue kneading at the strained muscles. You drag your thumbs down both sides of his spine, lips grazing over a particularly nasty bruise on his upper back.

You reach for the shampoo on the holder on the wall, squeezing a generous portion into your hand before you massage it into his hair, tenderly sweeping the wet strands that cling to his skin up into your hand. You watch as some of the suds tinge red and brown from blood and dirt and you feel a surge of simultaneous sadness and pride rip through you – he endured so much to help others but you weren’t ever sure he’d fully understand that. That he’d only look at it as recompense for his time as the Winter Soldier.

You press another kiss to his neck when you finish with his dark locks, your hands reaching around to intertwine with his, as you rest your head on his shoulder.

Neither of you speak. You simply let go for a minute, let the simple expression of love, of two bodies melted together in an pure kind of intimacy while the warm water cascades down and cleanses be enough for a few moments.

Bucky moves first, turning around to face you. His eyes aren’t vacant anymore, in fact, they’re rather bright, but his face is still clouded by that invisible shadow. His normal hand rests on your waist, his thumb caressing your hipbones, while the metal one smooths your hair gently back from your face.

You both move together at the same time, Bucky’s lips meeting yours softly but with a kind of pressing need that leaves you spinning; you wrap your arms around him and work your mouth against his, savoring the way he feels on you.

Even though you’re both stripped down to nothing, neither of your actions are driven out of lust. It’s out of a need for closeness, a desperation for that beautiful, tangible connection to the person who has your heart.

Your kisses both slow down before you pull back, but your heart is still racing as Bucky’s forehead rests against yours.

Fuck, you love him so much.

Right as you’re thinking it, Bucky speaks, his voice cracking slightly but still audible above the din of the water:

“I love you so much.”

You kiss him again in response, only breaking the kiss faster this time to reply, your own voice heavy with emotion:

“I love you so much too.”

You look down at his chest, double-checking to make sure that the water and mixing soap and shampoo took care of the worst of it. They did.

“Wanna get out?”

Bucky nods, stepping back and turning the water off. He gets out first and you follow, wrapping yourself in a towel and walking out into the adjoining bedroom.

You tug on some maroon boyshort panties before moving over to Bucky’s drawer of shirts. You grab your favorite – his worn in red henley – and pull it over your head. It’s like a mini dress on you, but it’s cozy as hell, it smells like him and you know he likes seeing you wear it. It’s a reminder that you really are his, that you aren’t a delusion or a false memory.

You slide into bed first, watching as he throws on a dark t-shirt and boxers and turns to join you.

“Big spoon or little spoon?” You ask as Bucky sits down next to you on the mattress, and you lift the covers so he can crawl in under.

He doesn’t answer, just points to his chest and you nod, shimmying yourself over and pulling your damp hair to one side before laying down on him, laying your arm over his stomach as he wraps his arm around your waist, pulling you snugly into his side.

You both sit in silence for a few moments before you speak – forcing yourself to stay awake a little longer despite the lulling effect of Bucky’s fingers smoothing your hair. You know that even if he doesn’t believe your words right now, it’s still important that he hears them.

“Buck?”

“Hm?”

“If you want to talk about what happened today, I’m here. You don’t have to though. But I just want you to know that it wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t Clint’s either.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything, only continues to keep stroking your hair. You’re about to speak again when Bucky does respond:

“Figured Steve would tell you. But you weren’t there. You don’t know …” His voice is short, but it’s more weary than upset.

You prop yourself up on your elbow and reach your fingers to touch his chin, gently moving his face toward yours.

“You’re right. But I know you, I know the team, – every one of you would die before not giving your all into a mission. I know you guys did everything you could.”

Bucky grabs the hand that lies on his chest and squeezes, but he averts your gaze.

“Babe, please look at me.”

He swallows and meets your gaze, and you run your hand through his hair; the combination of your action and the earnestness in your voice threatening to send the tears building in his eyes spilling out:

“You do good, Bucky, you are good, I promise you. Please don’t blame yourself for this.”

Bucky swallows hard, and you decide its best if you don’t acknowledge the tear that runs down his face.

You simply wrap your arms around his neck, letting him shift onto his side as he winds his arms tight around you, your legs intertwining. You move against his chest, feeling his steady heartbeat and the deep breaths he’s taking.

This time, it’s Bucky who has something to say to you:

“Y/N?”

“Yeah?”

His words are simple, but they carry so much.

“I’d be lost without you.”

You nuzzle against his chest, blinking back your own emotion as you breathe him in; so entranced by the type of encompassing, caring, amazing love you’ve found in each other.

“I feel the same.”

Despite the two of you usually ending up sprawled across the mattress in your sleep, tonight, you fall asleep tangled together – a simple, sincere expression of being reminded how lucky you both were to have found someone who you knew would never let go of each other.


End file.
